


We're Not A Team (we're a time bomb)

by Rainbowrites



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assisted Suicide, Gen, Suicide, except actually 6...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowrites/pseuds/Rainbowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers never should have worked. Six ways they didn't</p><p>(and of course, the one way they did)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Not A Team (we're a time bomb)

**Author's Note:**

> I found this while going through my old folders so I cleaned it up and, uh, enjoy?
> 
> Also I just realized there are two Natasha tags and that is SO ANNOYING

**_Six_ **

 

Bruce gets the idea from his patients, funnily enough. He can try and keep going, fight just to get up and take another breath, but every time he looks in the mirror he sees a monster. He’s just so tired of fighting all the time. He tiptoes, and can’t remember what it feels like to strut. For some reason the comparison makes him smile.

The Other Guy can protect him from bullets and radiation and even tanks. Maybe even nukes. He’s pretty sure that’ll be the next thing the army tries to throw at him. But maybe they’ve all been looking at this wrong. Maybe they don’t need to get bigger. Maybe they need to go smaller.

It’s funny, he thinks, because this all started when he tried to recreate Dr. Erskine’s work. The legend went that Dr. Erskine had chosen Steve Rogers because Rogers was tiny, was weak and sick and _small_. There were too many big bullies, he’d written in his notes, maybe it was time for the little guy to take care of things.

And as it turns out, the one thing the Other Guy can’t save Bruce Banner from is himself. Himself and one tiny little virus called _P. falciparum_. Bruce grins to himself as he slides the needle in. People always underestimate how powerful something can be, just because it’s small. One of the reasons the Other Guy is so scary is because of how huge he is. But really, Bruce knows what real strength is. It’s when you decide not to be a monster. He’s had practice. He walked away from his father. He can walk away from the Hulk.

In the end, Bruce knows that he’s the strongest one there is.

 

**_Five_ **

 

Odin rages and Thor rages right back, sure in his oh-so-young way of his own righteousness. Odin lifts his hand to banish his first-born, his dearly beloved son, and –hesitates.

That split second of doubt is all Loki needs. 

“Father,” he says, wide eyed with filial piety, “What use would there be to banish Thor, when he can be taught instead?”

Odin’s gaze nearly scorches him from the floor on which he stands, but he merely bows before it and the force of his father’s anger largely sweeps over him to leave him unscathed. Loki is the reed that bends before the roaring of the storm, which is why he will survive even after his brother’s proud oak is torn asunder.

“You dare question my will?” His father thunders, like the young god of myth he once was.

“Never,” he answers truthfully, for he never would. To his face.

“Then what are you saying Loki? Spit it out boy!” 

“Yes father,” he murmurs, and for one hot, blinding moment he is nearly muzzled by his hatred for his blood, for his kin that deride his skill and hard won cleverness. They want everything quick and straight-forward. They have no respect for his art, the silver tongue that he smelted in trials of fire. “I merely mean to suggest that Thor is young,” Thor roars at this, but all ignore him. “He may not be ready to rule, as you suggest,” This time Thor does not make a sound, muted with shock at the idea of his perceived birth right ripped from him, “but that does not mean he will never be ready. Show your mercy, father, I entreat you, as well as your immeasurable wisdom. Do not throw away a tool that may yet be sharpened for your armory.”

Odin tilts his head as he regards Loki, measures his words in that one bright eye. In that moment, Loki remembers how his father had plucked out his own eye in search of wisdom. When Loki licks his dry lips the words linger salty on his skin like blood.

Loki has longed for his father’s gaze all his life, and he knows that if his father will only _listen to him,_ then everything will have been worth it. It will be his turn to bask in the sun of his father’s regard. He feels as though he is carved of ice, frozen in Thor’s mighty shadow.

“What do you suggest my son?” Odin is gentle, as though it only the two of them in that great room. Loki nearly weeps, but his face does change.

“Suspend his birth right. Allow another to lead in his stead, and let them learn together what it means to rule.”

“By which, of course, you mean yourself.” Loki nearly starts at that. He had forgotten that Sif was still there. Or that any besides himself and his father were. But he does not flinch, nor move his eyes from the bearded face that he knows so well.

“It is only right, to pass the throne onto Odin’s blood,” Loki sees the tiniest flash pass over Odin’s face at that, one that no one would have seen if they hadn’t been searching for it. He wants to scream, wants to rage and demand _why_ and _how,_ so instead he merely looks at Odin’s feet demurely. He will win this battle, with his own weapons. “I will of course, demure to my father’s decision. Should he choose to cast Thor out, I will be grieved but will support my king. I only ask,” He hesitates for exactly 1.2 seconds, “as his son, that he should not deny me my brother, his wife her first born, and the kingdom its future ruler all in one fell swoop. Thor can learn, father. Let us learn together, and once you have seen what we” _what I_ “can do, then make your decision.” 

Loki can see the signs. His father is soon for Odinsleep. There is no point to rule if his father is not there to see it, not there to realize the prize he had all along and disregarded in favor of his louder, warrior son. If his father refuses, and casts Thor down, then Loki still has his plot with the frost giants as a back up plan. And Thor’s allies will see how he fought on his brother’s behalf and cast aside any lingering doubts they have of his character to join his side completely.

He does not look at his brother. He does not know what he will see nor what he hopes to see. This unknowing worries him slightly, but he disregards it in the face of his current situation.

Odin regards him silently for one long, long moment. Finally, his hands release Thor, who falls at Loki’s feet. Loki glances down automatically, and for a second their eyes meet. Thor’s eyes are wide with clear blue disbelief, and Loki is enraged that _once again_ Thor does not believe in Loki’s power, his silvertongue and the word magic it forges. But then Thor’s face melts into an expression of humbled love, of admiration, of _debt_ , that Loki never expected. The warmth of it makes Loki’s face twitch into a small smile, cracks the ice of his heart with a sharp stab of pain, although he had planned to stay beseechingly grateful for their father.

“You would do well to listen to your brother, as he will rule in your place while I sleep. Take your turn in his shadow, Thor, and see how words may save what force cannot. Our people, long ago, forged a treaty with the Frost Giants that saved us both. Perhaps,” Odin’s one eye flickers between them, “You may recreate that miracle.”

Odin inclines his head towards Loki. It is just a fraction of a movement, but it is enough. Loki’s skin itches, burns as it struggles to contain the wild joy that nearly splits him open and lays him bare. He bows before his King, kisses his father’s hand.

“Together, you two may make great kings of Asgard.” Odin leaves with that proclamation, leaving Loki standing before a kneeling Thor.

Loki extends one hand towards Thor. “Come brother,” he bares his teeth, too feral with giddiness to attempt to twist it into a smile, “We have much work to do.”

 

**_Four_ **

 

He watches her, the elegant roll of her shoulders as she moves, her tightly measured steps. She’s beautiful, and all the more so because she’s so dangerous. Her red hair stands out like a flame, and he can’t help but think that a real spy would never have something so obvious, so memorable. She should have died it black. But then again, maybe she wants to be remembered. Maybe she wants people to look twice at her.

The thought makes him pause, fingers tight on the arrow. It’s an exciting thought, an intriguing idea that worms its way into his brain like very little does anymore. Her hair is bright spot of color in a muted grey room. What else is there, behind an assassin who doesn’t hide? His fingers itch to stretch her open, explore her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s smoking hot too.

“Hawkeye. Take out your target.” Coulson’s voice is bland is his ear, but the mere fact that he’s breaking radio silence at all says a _lot_.

“I was just thinking,” he murmurs, watching her carefully for any sign that she hears him, “maybe there’s another way. Maybe we should take her in.” _Maybe she deserves another chance_. “She would be a great agent.”

“Negative, Agent. She is one of the KGB’s Red Room children. They were raised to be loyal.” _So was I_ , thinks Clint, and loosens the arrow ever so slightly. “She is an enemy of the state, and must be taken out.” 

Clint pauses, and for one long second he thinks about that bright red hair.

“Clint,” Coulson’s voice is almost soft. “You have your target.”

Clint doesn’t quite sigh, but his muscles loosen anyway. She’s beautiful. But so are plenty of girls. He promises himself that he’ll try to chat up that cute Agent Morse if he finishes up this assignment quickly.

The last sight he has of her is through the scope, of one big beautiful green eye. A second later, it’s imbedded with an arrow. The Black Widow drops without a sound, and he’s oddly disappointed by how easy it was. He was expecting... _more_ from someone so famous. He guesses that that’s what he gets, for being a sniper. You don’t get up close and personal the way hand-to-hand fighters do, don’t get to turn it into a dance. Well, not one that the other party know they’re part of anyway. 

He packs up and leaves. It’s on to the next target.

 

**_Three_ **

 

She hears him of course. She’s got a hacker in her ear that lets him know every word he exchanges with this... _Coulson_.

He wants to save her. She almost breaks cover and laughs at that. How very noble of him, to want to save the damsel in distress.

She does not need to be saved. She will save herself. 

She hears the unspoken sigh of the man - _Clint_ \- as he accepts his mission. She turns ever so slightly, and stares up straight at him so that he will know she knows he is there. Know that he not a man, but a weapon. But not one that America wields, as much as they might pat themselves on the back over her corpse. Natasha Romanova will choose her own fate. The Red Room has taken everything else from her, but she will take this from them all. Only she owns her life.

She looks into the eye of the arrow and meets her death without blinking.

She smiles as she dies.

 

**_Two_ **

 

Tony laughs, and his lips crack and bleed with the movement. All that fighting, all that work, and he’s just going to die a few miles from where he was going to die before. He thinks, without a little self-deprecation, that at least being killed by terrorists would have been a pretty cool way to go. Dying lost in the desert is just _embarrassing_.

Maybe it’s the dehydration talking, but he feels calmer than he has in months. Years even. He can’t fight this, can’t build a machine out of sand and his own blood. He can only wait, to be rescued or die. He knows the odds of both those options. He’s the world’s most famous futurist after all, he always knows what’s going to happen. Well, he didn’t see the whole Obadiah thing coming, but everyone gets one mistake. But, as the tired old saying goes, one mistake is enough. And for the first time, Tony realizes, he’s not the exception that proves the rule. There’s something almost weirdly comforting in being, in his last moments at least, just like everyone else. It’s something he’s fought his whole life but maybe now he can stop fighting.

The sand will wear away the flesh from his body and the sun will bleach his bones, and eventually he will wear down until he is part of the desert itself. He could be resting in the remains of a thousand men, the Tony Starks of their time. He can see that future as clearly as he once saw the Jericho missile. Only his broken, man-made heart will be left, rusting down to particles.

There’s something almost peaceful about that loss of choice. There’s nothing left to do, no escape to plan or weapon to build. He’s released. He’d fought and plotted and sacrificed for one last gamble and he lost. He did all he could. No one can fault him for that, not even himself.

Tony _knows_ it’s the dehydration talking now, because when has Tony Stark ever not blamed himself for something?

He curls up in the little hollow he’s made for himself in the sand, and counts the artificial beats of his heart.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6…

 

**_One_ **

 

The first thing Steve hears is crying. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking as the room slowly blurs back into being.

The first thing he sees is a pair of black heads, inclined over him like angels in prayer. He sees the tears dripping from their noses with strange clarity, the glitter of them in the air before they hit the blanket. 

“Don’t cry,” he says instinctively, because he’s never been able to bear tears. They make him freeze up, and feel horrible and gawky like his tongue’s swollen up inside his mouth and he’s choking on it.

They both freeze mid-sniff.

“Peg?” He wonders, delirious. “Howard?”

“Yeah,” Howard mutters, and he looks awed. He looks the same way he did when Steve first stepped out of the machine. Steve smiles, a little awkwardly at him, before being drawn like a magnet to Peggy’s face.

She reaches down, hesitates, then cups his chin. She kisses him reverentially, and he thinks if he wasn’t already lying down he’d have fallen.

“Hello Captain,” her breath is the faintest gust of wind against his lips. She pulls back, and he’s startled to see that her face is wet. He knows he just saw her crying, but seeing the tear tracks, the red in her eyes, makes it so much more real.

He opens his mouth to ask her where he is, what happened, but all that comes out is a broken, “Am I late?”

She laughs, and it’s like ice cracking apart under the summer sun. “You’re six months late Rogers,” she smiles, like she’s never said anything so wonderful. She licks her lips to savor the words there. “You better spend the rest of your life making it up to me.”

He wrestles his nearly numb fingers into clumsily clasping hers. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

**_Zero_ **

 

_There was an idea_


End file.
